Sweep fast, tea’s on the stove, DO THE BED WILL YA?
Turning, running to the kitchen,
that tea again and I swear I’ll kill you.
Mop, baby is still crying,
Crying, screeching louder like metal nails squealing across screechy glass scratching the innermost depths of ear brain squirming twirling crying dieing grinding teeth; bleeding tongue; sounds are shattering clattering metal flashing cups burning with the wetness of the mop which is mopping tears onions baby tea father? Mother, shower sweat dripping with heat stove burning food baby crying stabbing tearing the sanity
Open, turn key; turn key, start.
The trunk of the car submits as the monotonous road offers its sanity and the bushes invite the blood off my hands.
No more does the world grind on its axis; it runs smoothly, soundless without a cry.